The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story Fred Saberhagen (phonics books txt) 📖

to my vineyard, there’ll really be no one. The nearest village is about a day’s walk distant. And I don’t know if there’s anyone in that village I’d want to perform my wedding ceremony.”

      “That’s too bad.” But in fact Delia did not seem very much upset.

      Val continued: “A White Temple priest or priestess would be the best, I think. Maybe someday we can get to a White Temple somewhere. I pray to Ardneh sometimes. Actually I pray to Ardneh a great deal. He’s not dead like the other gods.”

      Delia was now listening carefully, wide-eyed and nodding. As far as her companion could tell, she was accepting everything he said as truth. That made him feel the importance of weighing his words carefully.

      He added moodily: “I could almost wish that we still had the other Sword. Wayfinder would show us where to find the right priest or official.”

      “Is it that important to you, finding someone to say words over us? We could pretend we still have the Finding-Sword.”

      Half in jest, half seriously, Valdemar closed his eyes, held out his hands gripping an invisible hilt, imagining or pretending that he still had the Sword of Wisdom.

      He said: “Sword, if you can do so without keeping me longer from my vineyard, or putting us in danger—show me the way to someone who could marry us.”

      Of course there was really no weight tugging at his hands, no bright metal to point and give him a direction.

      But Delia’s fingers were pulling at his sleeve. Opening his eyes, Valdemar discovered that they were no longer alone.

      Standing on the other side of the little clearing, regarding them in a friendly way, was a middle-sized, dark-haired, thirtyish man wearing boots and practical trousers of pilgrim gray, his upper body covered by a short white robe which made him look like a White Temple priest on pilgrimage. He appeared to be unarmed.

      Valdemar scrambled to his feet. “Greetings to you, sir. I am Valdemar, and this is Delia.”

      The man nodded his head briskly. His eyes were faintly merry. “And greetings to you, in Ardneh’s name. I am … the man you see before you.”

      “Sir?”

      “The truth is that I have taken a certain vow. For a time I may not speak my real name.”

      Delia appeared to find this interesting. “A vow to a god? Which one?”

      The other shrugged slightly, a deprecating gesture. “A vow to myself, that’s all. You might call me Brother White, if it is easier for you to call me something.”

      “Brother White—” Valdemar was suddenly anxious. “Are you a priest of the White Temple, as your robe suggests?”

      The newcomer nodded in acknowledgement. “I am. Among other things.”

      “Then … Reverend Brother? Would you be willing to perform a certain ceremony for us, sir?”

      “That is what you both want?”

      Delia and Val looked at each other, then said together: “It is.”

      “Then it would please me to be your witness, if you will perform the ceremony for yourselves.”

      Valdemar looked again at Delia, then agreed. He was beginning to have the distinct impression that he had known this man somewhere before, but he could not recall where or when.

      And then, abruptly, a hint of insight came to Valdemar. He asked: “Sir, do you know the Lady Yambu?”

      “I do.”

      “Then—sir, are you, possibly, he who is called the Emperor? She spoke to me once of such a man, who was once her husband.”

      “Indeed I am.” The answer was very matter-of-fact, neither a boast nor an apology.

      Val didn’t know exactly what to say next. At last he announced: “Sir—the Blue Temple covets your treasure.”

      “I’m sure they do.” The Emperor smiled, then looked almost wistful for a moment. “But I doubt they know how to get at it.”

      Delia’s thoughts were elsewhere. “If we are to be married,” she murmured thoughtfully, “I wish I had a new dress to wear.” There had been nothing of the kind in Brod’s saddlebags.

      “Let me see,” said the Emperor. And he bowed to Delia slightly, as if asking her permission for what he was about to do. Then he took her by one hand and turned her, spun her gently, considerately, as if he were the skilled partner of the world’s most graceful dancer. “White? Perhaps white would be best. Why, I see nothing in the least wrong with what you are wearing now.” And with the spinning, in the time it took young legs to dance a step, her stained, frayed garments changed, became a dress, a gown, of purest ivory.

      Val would have expected a White Temple priest presiding at a wedding to read from some kind of a book, but instead the Emperor—or Brother White—simply took each of the young people by the hand, held their hands clasped together in his own, and asked them questions about their commitment to each other.

      The girl became very solemn for a time when this rather ordinary-looking man looked at her, and spoke to her and to Valdemar.

      The setting was a pleasant place, and, true to the morning’s promise, for once it was not raining.

      When the ceremony had been concluded, and Valdemar had kissed his bride, he turned to Brother White and said: “Sir, we are young and healthy. We intend to avoid war in the future—so we have no need of either of these Swords that we are carrying. Or, rather, others have greater need of them than we do. And we have had proof, more proof than we needed, that the possession of such treasure can bring disaster as well as healing. So—I want to give them to you.”

      Brother White listened carefully, and nodded. “A noble gift, and I thank you. And I am proud to accept. Still, others have greater need than I. So my acceptance must have one condition.”

      “Yes sir?”

      “That you carry these Swords, which are now mine, with you a little longer. Hand them over to the next person you meet who appears to be in need of their powers.”

      Valdemar and Delia nodded. The Emperor waved them on their way.

* * *

      Very well pleased to be formally